Deterioration
by TheArc5
Summary: AU.  In the Year That Wasn't, the Master slowly breaks Martha into someone even she can't recognize.  Spoilers for TSODLOtTL.  R&R!


Jack gets out. Saxon just stands there, and Martha knows he's watching, but Jack disappears, becomes a ghost. There will be legends; she knows there will be legends. The disappearing man who cannot die roams the planet at the bidding of a captive Time Lord. Even that sounds like a legend.

The soft cotton blanket hides her tears well.

He asks, politely, as if they were having tea. She wants to scream her protest, to lash out at him, to kill him...so quickly she thinks of death...but the Doctor slowly shakes his head.

He saves her life.

This is the first lesson she learns: he is the Master, and his subjects do not say no.

The first time is scientific, an experiment in the art of degradation. He asks her to stand this way and that, to turn so the light gleams on her skin. He smiles.

He asks her to relax.

It is the first and last time he sees her cry.

Something has gone wrong. Perhaps Jack, somewhere out there, has thrown a wrench in the works. Locked up in this ivory tower, she doesn't know. The only news she gets is the pain that grows in her mother's eyes every day. She isn't allowed to speak, and someone is always watching, but with the breakfast tray each morning is a little more sadness, a little more defeat. Martha has come to hate mornings even more than evenings.

But when he comes at midday, she knows something is wrong. He says nothing, just tears off his tie and jacket and stares at her, grinding his teeth. This might sting a little, he says, then kisses her hard enough to bruise her lips.

She is afraid. He lifts her, slams her into the wall, and he's stronger than he looks. It does hurt. She thinks of ivory towers and silk sheets, the luxury around her a mockery of the world outside, and something else in her snaps. She kisses him back, and doesn't stop until she knows she's hurt him, too.

Nothing is scientific now. His shirt rips beneath her fingers, and he shatters a Ming dynasty vase with her body. Someone is bleeding, and neither can tell who the blood belongs to. For once, they are equals; they are both in pain.

Afterward, lying on the Oriental rug, he falls asleep with her for the first time.

He won't let her see the TARDIS. Too many old memories, memories best forgotten, now. Instead, he brings her a delicate silk dress, a bottle of champagne, and music. Dinner is sumptuous, as usual, but this time, he tells her things. He's been to the future, and he's going to bring it back with him. War is a constant, he tells her. War is inevitable. But he can harness it. Empires, kingdoms, principalities...he will rule them. He can silence those hideous drumbeats of war. Once they have gone through the fire, they will be malleable, pure. They're like children: they just need to be taught. He can teach them, because he's seen what they need to learn. He's seen the wars of history, wars of the universe.

She drinks, long and deep. He wants her to be there. He wants her to help him. She's a doctor, after all, he says. He'll lead them into glorious battle, and she can patch up the wounded. Wouldn't she like that?

They dance to the strains of Vivaldi, and he embraces her in excitement over his plans. Not so different, Martha realizes with a jolt, than the Doctor used to do. Has she become so soft, locked in this suite of rooms? Has she forgotten how wrong this all is?

He is gentle; he smiles. He kisses her forehead and settles next to her, pulling her into his arms and resting his cheek against her hair.

I will make everything new, Martha, he tells her. And whether it's the champagne or the long weeks of waiting or just the desperate need for hope, she almost believes him.

She is getting to know him. He shows her some of his plans, and despite herself, she takes interest. He shows her the fault lines beneath Japan, and tells her about stabilizing technologies that could be planted, miles apart, to stop the earthquakes. The land would be uninhabitable for a year, but only a year; then, Japan would never have to worry about earthquakes again. He could reforest the mountains of China. He could grow wheat in Siberia without changing the climate. He could reintroduce the dodo to the Galapagos. If the Earth's population was spread from the ground to the stars, he could do so much.

Some of them will die, but isn't that the way of things? All wars have their casualties. She remembers Canary Warf, doesn't she? And Torchwood was just trying to help. So is he. He's just better at it. He knows that keeping proper control is preservation.

The Doctor infuriates him. Self-righteous, he says, and stubborn. Thinks he knows better. Same as the old days. He says little else, because Martha doesn't like to talk about it.

Are you happy? he asks her one day. She is taken aback. She is a prisoner, but her cage could hardly be less gilded; she's probably better off than most of the people outside. She is starved for news, but her education isn't neglected; she has medical texts from all over the universe, and a plethora of literature and poetry and history at her disposal. He reads to her, pointing out political philosophy, irony, and witticisms she could have never caught on her own. He teaches her about physics and astronomy, late at night, from a window that only shows the stars. There is always music playing, and she catches herself singing sometimes.

She's even stopped thinking of it as rape, she realizes. Somewhere along the line, she's come to expect it in all its forms, dangerous and hungry, gentle and giving. There are even times that she enjoys it.

I want you to be happy, he says tenderly, caressing her cheek. You're good. You're the best thing left. I want to take care of you.

I love you.

She stops just short of saying it back.

She wakes up one night with tears on her face. It takes her a moment to realize they aren't hers. He's crying.

What is it? she asks. He looks at her, his eyes empty and hollow in the dim moonlight.

I'm scared, he tells her softly, brokenly. I don't want to be alone. Please don't leave me alone. I just don't want to be alone.

She holds him, comforts him in the dark. He speaks of drums and death, and she says the only thing she knows will make him stop.

I love you.

Looking at him, so vulnerable and aching in the dark, she almost means it.

He brings her out the day it all begins. War, across the stars. The end; the beginning. And there he is: Jack, dressed in black, looking like a bona fide leader of the rebellion. Martha touches her red silk dress and wonders what he's seen.

He looks at her with mingled pity and disgust.

There is a plan; there's always been a plan. He smiles at her, kisses her hand, starts the countdown; Jack laughs. You can't stop them thinking, he says, and the Doctor shines.

Time rolls backwards.

But all those things, they still happened. Martha hears about them at last, delivered by her mother, whose pain has finally found a voice and a gun. She holds it with both hands, and though she's crying, her hands never waver. Japan burned. Genocide swept China. Siberia was a radioactive wasteland, and the genetic experiments...the experiments...

The Doctor isn't fast enough. The shot seems to go in slow motion, and his blood is the color of Martha's dress. He looks for her, and without thinking, she runs down those steps, screaming. She's the one who catches him as he falls, and her tears fall on his face.

Just regenerate! the Doctor howls behind her, but she's between him and his target. She knows he won't do it, even before he tells her.

This is a good way to die, he whispers to her, touching her face. Not alone. I really do love you, Martha. Beautiful Martha. No more wars, no more drums. And I'm not alone.

He's dead before she can answer.


End file.
